


Two Fish, One Swimming Upstream

by tmelange



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Smallville
Genre: College Years, First Time Meeting, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-Capes, Third Person Involved, Young Clark or Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent, a graduate student at Gotham U falls for Bruce Wayne but still feels the pull of an old flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Fish, One Swimming Upstream

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006.

Clark Kent sometimes cursed his odd lack of coordination when he needed it the most. Perhaps, he was a victim of placing himself so far inside his façade that his subconscious provided the pretext for every context. Whatever his problem, he had just made a fool out of himself—yet again—and this time to the detriment of a student who really didn't look all that…forgiving.

"I am _so_ sorry," Clark mumbled, as he tried to gather the textbooks that were now strewn along the pathway to the library, some even making it as far as the bushes. "I wasn't looking—"

"Clearly."

Clark stopped, taken aback by the guy's tone. Clark was on one knee, trying to gather their belongings, but the guy with the black hair and the cold blue eyes was looming over him, scowling, blocking out the sun like a tall, dark cloud. Clark scowled in return. "Hey, calm down. I said I was sorry."

The guy merely expelled air through flaring nostrils and crouched to gather his own books, before stalking away.

Clark stood on the pathway in the midst of the mess of his things, feeling like he had just been hit by a Kansas tornado—right in the middle of campus in Gotham City.

:-:

Bruce Wayne ran into the guy literally—late one afternoon as he was heading to the library to study for a test in Criminal Procedure. He was only auditing the class at the law school, but he took the exams seriously enough to want to study for them. While he could have accomplished this at any number of places—anywhere in the cavernous manor he called home, for instance—there was something appealing about studying on campus, in the midst of the hum of student life; a hum that provided a certain background noise, a harmless distraction while allowing him to stay far enough outside of it all to maintain his focus.

The bumbling reject from the football team barreled into him like he was running plays in his head, instead of minding where he was going. It was only as he watched the guy scrambling after books that he realized his assailant couldn't possibly be on the football team; he completely lacked anything resembling the grace a person would need to be an athlete. The guy was just very tall. And broad. And appallingly blue in the eyes.

Bruce scowled, gathered his things, and proceeded on his way.

:-:

Again, Clark found himself in the same general vicinity as the guy he had collided with weeks ago. He wished he knew the guy's name. It seemed sort of odd to keep referring to him in his head as 'the guy' when he so often looked up from studying to see that dark-haired head sitting at a cubby along the wall on the other side of the main archives, bent over a book. If the guy had seemed the least bit approachable, Clark would have introduced himself. After all, he was sort of homesick and lonely, and the daily telephone calls from Lex were a poor substitute for the presence of a real live friend, especially when his graduate program was so stressful, and Gotham City so strange, and the university so fast paced.

Once, they were in the last group of students to leave the library, following the guard out of the only entrance to the building that was still open, and it was then that Clark realized the guy actually remembered him, because those blue eyes looked right at him and the guy nodded, just a negligible tilting of the head, before he disappeared into the night. This simple acknowledgment made Clark happy, made him feel like he wasn't just beating his head against the wall; that it was somehow possible in this strange place to make friends, to become comfortable—with the mad press of people, the too-tall buildings, the creeping cement; to find that bit of blue in the unrelenting gray of overcast skies.

That was why, when the two of them exited the library at half past midnight three nights later in the torrential rain and the howling wind, Clark simply touched the guy on the arm and pointed towards the graduate apartment building on the other side of the quad. As he took off in the rain, trying to keep his books sheltered under his sweatshirt, he was somehow sure the guy would follow.

:-:

What made him follow the guy, Bruce would never know. It was a spur of the moment decision, even though the rain never hurt anyone, and his car was in the opposite direction, and even if he was soaking wet, it was a short twenty-minute drive to the outskirts of Gotham City and the family estate he called home.

Perhaps it was the fact that the big oaf didn't give him a chance to object; he merely touched his arm and took off in the rain, and Bruce felt it would be somewhat rude to disappoint a guy who oozed country kindness—though being considered rude had never bothered him before. So he followed, easily catching up, and they burst into the lobby of the apartment building side-by-side.

"Upstairs," the guy said, smiling. His eyes were very blue, and very wide, and seemed to stand out amidst black hair that was now plastered to his head, sending water in rivulets down his face. "Fourth floor. No elevator." And he took off again, into the stairwell and up the stairs at a canter, and all Bruce could do was follow.

When they stood in his foyer, dripping water on the cheap wall-to-wall carpet that was the standard décor in the graduate apartments, Bruce bit the bullet and stuck out his hand.

"I guess I should introduce myself," he said, a little less than graciously.

But the guy only smiled, and grasped his hand, and said, "Yeah, I guess you should."

:-:

"So, you're a law student?" Clark asked, throwing Bruce a towel he had retrieved from the bathroom.

"Something like that." Bruce used the towel to start drying his hair.

Clark furrowed his brow but held his questions until he returned to the living room with some dry clothes. "Here," he said, tossing them at Bruce. "You can change in the bathroom."

Ten minutes later, they were both in sweatpants and t-shirts, and settled in the living room, Bruce on the sofa and Clark in the armchair facing him with his feet propped up on the coffee table, television playing in the background. "So, exactly how can you be something of a law student?" Clark asked, resuming his questioning. "That sounds rather noncommittal."

Bruce sipped from his bottle of water, and Clark admired the sleek way he seemed to do _everything._ There was nothing about his visitor that wasn't fluid and graceful, but not in any effeminate way. Animalistic. Yes, that was it. His visitor had the fluid grace of a jaguar, with a shock of blue eyes and black hair that was standing up on his head in spikes. It was almost…mesmerizing to see. Clark knew he was staring but he just couldn't help it.

"I'm auditing a few classes," Bruce explained.

"In the law school? I thought you couldn't audit classes in the professional schools."

"Technically."

"Technically you can, or technically you can't?"

"Technically you can't," Bruce said, taking another sip of water.

"Then how—oh. _Oh!"_ Clark had finally figured it out. "Bruce _Wayne._ Wayne Medical School. Ah." Clark knew he was shaking his head like a moron, but what exactly was there to say to a person whose name was on half of the buildings at the university?

"It doesn't mean anything," Bruce said, with a small sigh. He leaned back, slouching down into the sofa. "Except I can audit any class I want, of course."

Clark got to his feet. "Uh…can I get you anything else? I don't really have—do you want another water?" Clark moved into the small kitchenette to make good on his suggestion, but Bruce growled, "Just sit. And stop it," so he turned around and settled back in his chair.

He didn't know what to say, and the silence was becoming awkward.

"Right," Bruce said, leveraging himself up. "I think I'll go now."

"No. Wait," Clark said. "I didn't mean—it just takes a moment to get used to. You don't mind…?" Clark waved his hand at his meager grad student environs.

"Why should I?" Bruce said, throwing himself back onto the sofa.

"Because…you're richer than God…?"

"I'm sure God would object to that supposition," Bruce said under his breath. "Listen, let's just act like you don't know my last name—can we do that? Just Bruce. That works fine for me."

"Well…okay," Clark agreed with a hesitant smile. "I can do that."

Clark was going to ask Bruce about his classes when the phone rang, startling him.

There was only one person who would be calling at one o'clock in the morning. Clark jumped up to grab the receiver.

It was Lex, but Clark had to keep the conversation short, since he had company. He could tell that it bothered Lex—to know he had a friend named Bruce in the apartment in the middle of the night—but Clark was nonchalant, and what could Lex say anyway? It wasn't as if he couldn't have other _friends._

When he took his seat again across from his guest, he found Bruce watching him with the intense scrutiny of a scientist or a detective. "Friend from back home," Clark said, smiling apologetically. "So what classes are you taking?"

The conversation proceeded from there, in fits and starts, and around a few rough patches that required some smoothing over, but nothing that completely stemmed the steady flow. Outside, the rain poured down in buckets, lashing against the windows. Lightning flashed, thunder roared in the background, until Clark looked over at the wall clock and realized it was six fifteen in the morning, and they had managed to talk the night away. It had stopped raining at some point, and he had an eight o'clock class.

As he stood at the door to let Bruce out, Bruce asked the one question that hadn't come up in a whole night of talking about school and about Gotham. "So where is home, Clark?" he asked, standing in the doorway with his damp clothing in his hands.

"Smallville. Kansas," Clark said.

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Smallville," he said slowly. "In…Kansas." He turned, headed towards the staircase. "Well, that explains it."

:-:

"We don't really invite strange people up to our apartments in the big city, Clark. That's all I'm saying."

"But we're on campus. We're both clearly students. I've seen you around many times—"

"Even so, Clark. It's just not something you do in Gotham City."

"Well, maybe you should," Clark objected rebelliously. "Then maybe everyone wouldn't have such a bad attitude. A simple bit of neighborliness and I get hauled up on charges."

"Just trying to do you a favor," Bruce said with a shrug and a mocking smile. "Trying to smarten you up. Don't blame me if you bring home some stray dog and he bites you in the hand."

Clark paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Did you just compare yourself to a stray dog?"

"Not me, dumb ass. Obviously, I'm harmless."

"Oh," Clark mumbled, biting into his sandwich, "I would beg to differ."

Bruce sipped his coffee and shook his head at Clark's naiveté. The guy he had thought to be such a bumbling, second-string, bone head, was actually a bright journalism student with a prestigious fellowship and a paid internship at the _Gotham Gazette,_ and what had seemed impossible to understand in a stranger was, in reality, the simple nature of a guy who grew up in the Midwest, with the love of his parents, and a strong moral certitude that empathized instead of criticized. Certainly, Clark Kent was much more than he had assumed when they had collided on the quad, but he could use more common sense, that was very clear.

Bruce Wayne wasn't averse to helping the guy out. Keeping an eye on him. Obviously, he needed it.

:-:

Clark found he had a lot in common with Bruce, and regretted he had taken so long to make his acquaintance. It was certainly more…fun…to have someone to study with, to joke with over lunch, to meet for coffee, to catch the football games with on television. If Bruce disappeared sometimes, inexplicably, for days, Clark didn't really mind. Bruce always showed up again, when Clark least expected it—when he glanced up from a book in the library, when he returned to his apartment after class and found Bruce sitting on the steps, waiting; when he looked up from a meal in the campus cafeteria to see Bruce with his own tray, preparing to sit in the chair on the other side of the table.

So it shouldn't have surprised Clark, not really, when their friendship escalated one night when they were sitting on the floor, backs against the sofa, watching movies and eating pizza. It seemed a natural progression, when Bruce took the pizza out of his hand while he was writhing on the floor, laughing hysterically at one of Bruce's dry jokes, and put a hand on his shoulder to stop his manic gyrations; that Bruce leaned in and kissed him speechless.

When they broke apart, Clark was lying on his back, staring up at diamonds, stars, blue chips of thawing ice, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"At least I got you to stop laughing at me." Bruce's grin was lopsided, self-deprecating. Clark reached for him…and the phone rang.

Recalling Clark to himself.

He scrambled up, guiltily, and grabbed the receiver.

Of course, it was Lex, and what could Clark say? That his friend Bruce was over— _like so many other times Lex had called_ —and that they were simply hanging out. Lex knew him, and could easily interpret what Clark left unsaid with his quick, suspicious mind. To his direct questions all Clark could really do was tell the truth.

He set the receiver down slowly, with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"You should have lied," Bruce said, into the silence. Smoothly flowing to his feet, he grabbed his jacket and headed towards the door.

"I don't—I don't _lie,"_ Clark said. "Not about things like that."

"Then you should have told a more simple truth." Bruce's hand was on the doorknob.

"Wait. Where are you going?" Clark said, jumping up.

"Strategic retreat."

Clark was across the room, staring at the friend who had so quickly worked a way inside his heart. He reached out, captured a hand, a strong, soft hand that was completely at odds with Bruce's sharp edges. "What if I don't want you to retreat?" he asked.

"What about your _friend?"_ Bruce responded, and the hand in his tightened.

"I'll tell him," Clark said. "Tomorrow."

:-:

There was something positively special about Clark Kent, so when Lex Luthor arrived on the weekend, ostensibly to claim what was once his, Bruce supposed, there was no question of Bruce quitting the field.

They were settled in a booth in the campus coffeehouse on a Friday afternoon, arguing local politics, when _he_ entered the room. He was a little less impressive than in the pictures that were often published in the magazines—shorter, certainly—but he was still just as bald and positively imperious, with smoldering gray eyes that swept the room like a lion surveying a herd of gazelle, trying to decide on his next meal. He eyes fixed on them, and he stalked in their direction.

Bruce stiffened. Clark got to his feet.

"Lex—"

"Clark." A hand reached out, settled on Clark's arm possessively.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was worried about you, Clark. You sounded so…distant…on the phone." Those gray eyes flicked to Bruce, then returned to caress Clark's face. "I missed you. I thought we should talk, and I wanted to do it in person. I hope I'm still welcome, even if it's unannounced."

This was where Bruce thought Clark should just tell the guy the truth—that, _no,_ it was _not_ okay for his old _friend_ from back _home_ to simply show up unannounced. That things had changed—quickly, but irrevocably.

But that's not what Clark said.

"Yeah, Lex." Then with more conviction. "I'm just surprised. Of course. I'm glad you're here." Clark took his arm, turned him towards the table. "Uh, Lex, this is my friend, Bruce—the one I told you about. Bruce, Lex." The loudspeaker interrupted the introductions, announcing that a new order was ready at the counter. "Uh—that's me," Clark said. "I'll be right back. Don't—just—I'll be right back."

Lex watched Clark hurry across the room, then turned and extended his hand. Bruce ignored it until it was withdrawn.

"Bruce Wayne," Lex said with a smirk, disdaining to sit but tapping his fingers on the table aggressively. "The Wayne family scion, who leaves the running of his company to graspers and sycophants while he flits here and there, to little purpose. It's a…pleasure…to meet you."

Bruce remained silent. He had the distinct impression he'd learn more from Lex by letting him talk. Besides, if he started arguing with the smug bastard over Clark, it was going to end in Lex experiencing grave bodily harm. Bruce was smart enough to realize beating Lex to a pulp wouldn't earn him any points with Clark.

"I'm…not sure…what you think you're doing, _Bruce._ I know your story—rich, privileged—you think everything not nailed down is yours for the taking." Lex leaned forward. His voice was low, dangerous. "Well, Clark is _not_ free for the _taking._ Clark Kent belongs to me."

"I'm quite sure Clark's his own man and _belongs_ to no one."

"See," Lex said, stabbing a finger in the air, "that's where you're wrong—"

"What's going on?" Clark had returned, holding two specialty coffees. Lex became all smoothness and smiles, taking the cups from Clark and setting them on the table.

"Nothing," Lex said. "We were just trying to get acquainted."

"Bruce?"

Bruce nodded slowly.

Again, Lex had Clark by the arm. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "I'm sure your friend won't mind if you cut this short." Lex turned a sharp-toothed smile on Bruce. "You don't _mind,_ do you, Bruce? If I spend some time with Clark _alone?_ It was a long trip and I don't get to see him as often as you do. I'm sure you _understand."_

Lex was pulling Clark, urging him in the direction of the door. For a minute, Clark was as still as an immovable object, and Bruce had…hope.

"Bruce…?"

Bruce picked up his coffee. Took a sip. "Go. I'll catch you later."

:-:

"So that's your friend Bruce."

They were standing in front of Lex's silver _Porsche._ Clark wasn't sure what to say about Bruce, especially to Lex. Things had moved so quickly, and so many things had changed.

"Lex, I—"

"Clark," Lex interrupted, raising a hand and resting it on Clark's arm. "You don't have to explain anything. I understand. You're all by yourself here, and you've made friends, but that doesn't have to change anything between us. It doesn't have to affect us at all."

"Lex—"

"Just give me tonight, Clark. Come with me now. Let me remind you of how things used to be. Don't make any irrevocable decisions until you give me a chance."

Lex was so earnest, and they were friends first. Clark nodded his head. They climbed into the car, and were on their way.

An early dinner, a twilight walk in the park, Lex stopping at a newsstand, purchasing a magazine, opening it to a page and asking, "How much do you know about your friend Bruce Wayne?"

And there was Bruce, smiling and in color, immortalized in his stylish tuxedo, in pictures in _People_ magazine, with a beautiful brunette model on his arm. _He was smiling at her._ He looked like a completely different person.

Three pages of captions made their relationship quite clear.

"He's a notorious womanizer," Lex said quietly. "Every week he has another conquest on his arm. They never mean anything to him."

Clark nodded, and shrugged. "I don't know why you're telling me this, Lex." He turned, started walking in the direction of the car. "I told you we're just friends."

:-:

Bruce leaned against a tree, on the sidewalk across from Clark's building, watching the lights in the windows. Lex's car—the silver _Porsche_ with the Metropolis license plates—was parked out front.

It was getting late. Bruce wanted to talk to Clark. He was waiting for Lex to leave.

He was waiting for Lex to leave.

He waited for hours, until the lights in the apartment went out. And Lex's silver car was still parked out front.

The lights were out, and the car was still parked out front. It didn't take a detective—

His wristwatch beeped. A beacon appeared in the night sky. He had to go. The last thing he wanted to do was go.

:-:

A week later, Clark looked up from his book to find Bruce standing in front of him with a guarded look in his eyes and a sheepish smile. "Want some company?"

Clark nodded and made room on the table for Bruce's books.

There was silence between them, tense, awkward silence. Clark shuffled some things, then returned to the book he was studying.

"Clark—"

"You disappeared," Clark accused.

"I was busy."

"You always disappear."

"It was important."

Clark glared. "So important that you couldn't leave me a message? Oh right, we don't _do_ that. You don't call; you just show up. I don't get to know anything about you, except what you show me. I haven't even been over to your house—"

"This isn't you talking."

"But it's true." Clark took a deep breath, tried a smile. It hadn't been his intention to start an argument with Bruce. "I value your friendship, Bruce. God knows I'd probably lose my mind with no friends in this place, but—"

"Don't do this."

"Lex—"

"Don't."

:-:

They were in Clark's apartment, and Clark was pressed up against the wall. Bruce had him pressed against the wall. Everything was perfect, everything was exactly right—until Clark shuddered, until he invoked the name Bruce least wanted to hear.

 _"Lex—"_

Clark started to push him away.

Bruce expelled air harshly, and ran a hand through his hair. Took Clark by the shoulders and shook him. "You can't tell me that just because he came _first,_ you're going to disregard _everything—"_

This time, Bruce ignored his weak protests, and was satisfied that Clark did not have it in him to resist the way their bodies seemed to fit together so perfectly, the hot press of hands that had worked their way under his shirt, the lips that seemed to know instinctively how best to suck, to tease him to distraction.

Bruce groaned, buried his face in Clark's hair. "If you want him, _not me,_ say so." _Say so._ "If you want _him."_

:-:

Clark was confused. When he was with Bruce it felt new and exciting. Like magic. When he was with Lex it felt comfortable and safe. Like home.

"What if I can't choose?"

They were in the campus coffeehouse, at their usual table, drinking their usual lattes. Clark had his head down, studying the pattern on the placemat. He didn't know the right thing to say.

"Then I'll choose for you."

Clark watched as Bruce got up, threw some money on the table and stalked out.

:-:

Bruce was fixing himself a sandwich in the kitchen when someone knocked on the door. Bruce paused with a knife in his hand, then put it down and went to answer it. He was pretty sure he knew who was on the other side of the door, even though it was the middle of the week.

 _"You._ Every time I turn my back—"

"You don't need to turn your back, Luthor. You're welcome to watch."

"I'm warning you— _stay away from Clark."_

"Or what? You'll beat me up? You're welcome to _try."_

Lex tried to push his way into the apartment, but Bruce simply refused to move. Clark was in class, and even though Lex was a friend of his, Clark had never said to let him in when he wasn't at home. Bruce was the one with the key.

"Let me give you a little bit of advice," he said as he pushed Luthor back into the hallway. "Clark is capable of making up his own mind about who he wants in his life. If you were doing right by him—if he was happy—there would be nothing I could do that would impact your relationship. But we both know, that isn't the case."

Bruce's hand tightened on the doorknob, and he prepared to shut it in Lex's face.

"I know exactly what type of man you are, Luthor. You don't deserve him."

 _"And you do, you meandering wastrel?"_

:-:

They actually came to blows in the middle of campus.

The way the campus paper, the _Gotham University Gaslight,_ reported the event was perhaps the most concise and devoid of idle speculation: Lex Luthor tried to run Bruce Wayne over with his _Porsche_ on a sunny day in May during finals week, and when that didn't work, he exited the vehicle and proceeded to beat Gotham's favorite son to within an inch of his life.

They said Bruce Wayne didn't raise a hand to defend himself, even when Luthor was kicking him as he lay helpless and bleeding on the ground. A friend stopped the fight (well, beating, really), and whisked him away for medical attention.

Later, a school reporter managed to get a quote from the victim at the Wayne Medical Center on campus, where he had been taken for treatment. When asked about the incident, Bruce Wayne merely said he would look into pressing charges. When asked about the person who had stopped the fight, Mr. Wayne said the student was a good friend. When asked about reports that had him virtually disappearing from the scene of the crime, before emergency vehicles could arrive, Mr. Wayne shrugged and said that his friend was very concerned, and had used every resource to get him help with the utmost haste. And, no, he couldn't explain how he had disappeared, as he had been barely conscious. All he would say was, "It felt like flying." And that was his direct quote.

:-:

After they donned cape and cowl, they became more than just the friends, the lovers they had been; they became teammates, _partners,_ two commensurate souls sharing the same dreams, the same mission. Clark retained that soft spot he always had for Lex, even after Lex revealed himself to be the villain Bruce always knew him to be—the arch nemesis of Clark's alter ego. But Bruce never worried about Clark's lingering feelings for Lex, he was never again _jealous._ The two of them were so much _more_ to each other than any two ordinary people could ever be.

Actually, Bruce sympathized with Lex. He felt a certain detached pity for the man, a sense of fraternity, knowing, as he did, what it felt like to be fascinated by the mystery that was Clark Kent, and to be held, dangling, like a fish on the end of a hook, wanting, _desperately wanting,_ to know everything he would never know—the secrets, the inner parts of Clark that were reserved for a precious few.

Yes, they had been like fish back then, trying to swim in the current that was Clark Kent, but Lex had been the only one swimming upstream, fighting a losing battle against destiny, against his own nature, trying frantically to hold onto something precious that wasn't made for him. It wasn't fair, Bruce supposed as he wrapped an arm around Clark and pulled his sleeping body back into an embrace, but it was simply how things were meant to be.

 _finis_


End file.
